


Pools to bathe in

by backfourteen



Series: Lily white [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Banter, Developing Relationship, English Premier League, Leicester City F.C., M/M, Spurs, Spurs are massive bottlers, Tottenham Hotspur F.C.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:38:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6738502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backfourteen/pseuds/backfourteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not letting anyone down. If Leicester can do it without Vardy, we can do it without you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pools to bathe in

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. What an end to the title race yesterday was! Writing this was kind of my coping mechanism when I started to sympathize with Spurs. The more I write about these two, the more I love them and the more I grow to respect and harbor a strange love for Spurs.

Eric looks up from his phone, eyes narrow and skeptical and pointed at Dele. His gaze goes back down to his phone and he breaks into an open-mouthed gaping smile, looking back up and letting out a short barking laugh. Dele doesn’t pay much attention to it – they are out to lunch and he’s starving and eating while Eric’s letting his food go cold in front of him, because whatever is on his phone is more fascinating than lunch. And nothing’s more fascinating than lunch after training. At least to Dele.

Eric goes through the process a few more times – looking up from his phone, staring at Dele, looking back down, cracking up – before Dele balls up his napkin and throws it across the table. 

“Dier, Jesus. What’s so funny?” 

“Not funny. Well, it’s a bit funny. More shocking than anything. You really punched him!” 

Dele shakes his head as he takes another bite, smiling with gritted teeth as he says _fuck off_. 

“I’m going to watch it one more time, okay? That’s it.” 

Eric props his arm across the small table, holding his phone so they both can see and Dele shoves his hand away with an insulted yelp. 

“Don’t want to see it! I lived it! And how does it already have so many views? It happened _yesterday_.” 

“I’ll post it on Twitter. Banter you off. Classic Dier move.” 

And Dele jumps forward a bit, grabbing and pinning Eric’s wrist to the table, the phone smacking down with a thud. The glasses and silverware on the table rattle and Eric tries feebly to pull away but Dele’s grip is strong. 

“Don’t.” 

“Why? You gonna punch me in the gut?” 

“I’m to be sanctioned. Punished for it. Don’t want to make a joke out of it.” 

“The FA can’t take jokes?” 

Dele deflates a bit with a withering smile and lets go of Eric’s wrist, and Eric immediately slips his phone away and begins to eat, commenting sourly on the coldness of his meal. 

“That’s what you get for ignoring your food. Ungrateful.” 

“How am I supposed to flirt with you then?” Eric deadpans without looking up, shoveling now limp vegetables into his mouth. Dele is mid-sip of water and hardly manages to keep it from coming out of his nose. 

“What?” 

“If I can’t banter you off on the Internet. How am I suppose to flirt with you. It’s the only way I know how.” 

And Eric looks up and winks and Dele leans back in his chair incredulously, watching Eric’s dirty blonde head dip down for bites and pop back up to smile at him each time. 

“Just until it all blows over. Then I don’t care what you do.” 

“Why’d you do it anyway? In the box, no less. You’re mad, Del boy. Letting a Tony Pulis side get in your head. Especially, like, a day after winning Young Player.” 

Dele goes in to retaliate but Eric’s looking at him weirdly, with shiny eyes and a satisfied smirk. 

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” 

“I’m impressed.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“I am! I’m in the presence of greatness. Here we are, final weeks of the season. You win Young Player of the Year. You punch someone during a match and the ref doesn’t spot it. And you’re about to be sanctioned and probably suspended by the FA for the last matches of the campaign. You can’t be a great English player until you mug off the FA a few times. Hear me out, hear me out. Hodgson’s probably looking at this video thinking _yes, I’ll need that young lad getting away with shite during the Euros, we’ll need to throw some ‘bows to get anywhere this summer_.” 

They both double over with laughter. “But I didn’t – I didn’t elbow him!” 

“That’s a skill easily taught, young Dele. And what – is Poch cross with you for the first time ever now? Managers don’t really start to respect you until they get angry with you for the first time. And you can use your suspension as leverage! _Oi, Poch. Remember at the end of last season when our squad was shambles without me? Yeah, that’s what’ll happen if you bench me_. Like that.” 

“Like you’re so hard, Dier! And where’s all this wisdom coming from? You’re hardly two years older than me. Not coming from age.” 

“My footballing mind.” 

Dele snickers as he pays for both of them and they begin to walk just as it begins to rain. Eric nudges him in the side just as they pass a Topshop window and Dele stumbles forward a bit, turning back with a scowl. 

“Don’t fucking play around so much, Eric. Nearly slipped, it’s raining – ” 

“Why’d you pay for me?” 

Dele frowns. “It was my turn. You paid last time.” 

“So you can take me on a date but I can’t post a tweet about you.” 

“There’s no correlation between those things, idiot. Wasn’t a date. It was lunch and you hardly ate.” 

“What about ‘just until it all blows over’?” 

“The FA can’t see us eating together and you playing fucking footsies with me like they can see a tweet.” 

Eric laughs, clear and loud as a bell and the rain starts chucking down harder, blowing around in odd patterns in accordance with the wind. By the time they reach Dele’s car, he can hardly see out the front windshield and their saturated clothes make puddles in the seats and on the floor. It gets humid rather quickly and Eric cranks the air conditioning, slipping out of his pullover and tossing it into the backseat. 

“Mind your things. Fuck’s sake.” 

“Just a jumper.” 

“A sopping wet jumper.” 

They sit in silence for a minute, rain still raging and cold air billowing. Dele shivers as he peels out of his sweatshirt and cradles it in his lap. He leans his elbow on the console and his hand rests on the gearshift. 

“I feel badly.” 

Eric looks over at him and Dele does the same. 

“You’re not letting anyone down. If Leicester can do it without Vardy, we can do it without you.” 

Dele shoves Eric, unable to keep his straight face. “I mean it! You can’t let me talk for five seconds without bantering me off. Shit friend.” 

“On Spurs TV you said I was your _best_ friend.” 

“Well, not anymore. You’re a fuck.” 

Dele puts the car in drive as the windshield wipers spring to life and Eric puts his hand on top of Dele’s, moving them both to rest on the center console and lacing them together. Dele doesn’t look away from the road but he swallows hard, face set in a soft grimace. 

“I know. Just want you to be okay. Just want to make you laugh.” 

Dele nods. “I know you do. It helps.” 

Dele relaxes and Eric’s hand in his stays firm but reassuring, steadfast until they reach Eric’s place. 

“Don’t want you to go.” 

Dele forces it out because he wants to say it and he might as well, they held hands through London traffic and didn’t squirm once. That was easy but Dele still has to force himself to say anything genuine. He thinks a lot of things but saying them is different. It hardly comes out at all. 

“Don’t really want to go.” 

Eric is confident in the reply and unbuckles. “Want to come up, Del boy?” 

Dele doesn’t immediately respond and Eric scoots over and leans into the console as he turns Dele’s face and kisses him, leaning up as Dele strains down, mouths not quite slotting together perfectly and teeth colliding before Dele yanks away, Eric’s hand sliding off Dele’s jaw. Eric retreats and goes to open the car door but Dele pulls him back, hand wrapped like a vice around his arm. 

“No, stay. Just let me unbuckle. It’s digging into my neck.” 

Eric is still laughing as Dele slips out of the restraint, sitting there and just looking at Eric, eyes surprised but also inviting. “Try again.” 

And Eric does what he’s told. He goes slower this time, grinning face hovering close to Dele’s until Dele nods and meets him, both their mouths slow and stunned. It’s easy and controlled for both of their sakes, Eric’s hands holding Dele’s face and Dele’s hand balled up in the front of Eric’s shirt. Dele makes a noise when Eric kisses him particularly hard after a few seconds and Dele moves his free hand up to the back of Eric’s head, slicking down the back of his damp gelled hair. Eric shivers with the contact of Dele’s fingers on his neck and Dele draws away again, shutting off the air and slumping against the headrest. He turns to face Eric, who is too slumped back, cheeks red. 

“You cold, Dier?” 

“I wasn’t cold. You tickled me, so I shivered.” 

“I did _what_? Maybe I’m just that good at it.” 

“You are, but. You touched my neck. And it.” Eric slows as a satisfied smile spreads across Dele’s face. “Fuck off. Like you aren’t wired.” 

They look at each other and laugh for a moment before Eric stills and exhales. The rain has slowed and barely patters on the outside of the car. 

“You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. I’ll be lonely but. I know you’ll be watching.” 

Dele nods. “I’m sorry. All I want is to play with you.” Eric sniggers and Dele rolls his eyes. “Alongside you. Immature.” 

“Don’t apologize. You’re brilliant.” 

“Get out of my car, sappy bastard.” 

Eric surges forward and bumps Dele’s nose with his, dipping down for a quick press of his lips to Dele’s and presses Dele against his door before relieving him of the weight far too quickly for Dele’s liking. 

“Glad you kissed me.” 

Dele says as Eric collects his jumper from the backseat and hops out the passage side. 

“You were never going to do it, so.” 

Dele honks his car horn as Eric jogs into his building, nervously thanking God or whoever is looking out for him that he had the good sense to rest his sweatshirt in his lap. 

And Dele ends up being secretly, slightly relieved that he was not on the pitch for the match at Stamford Bridge. He feels cowardly and ashamed but relieved. It’s a hard match to read – tensions are high, Chelsea are testy and dramatic as they tend to be, but Spurs seem to be feeding off the frantic and negative energy, especially after the two equalizing goals. They lose the composure and dominance they are known for and descend into absolute madness. It’s a derby with more on the line that usual but there’s really no excuse for that. For nine yellows. 

“Nine yellows. You’re a lucky boy, you know that, Dier? Not sure how you didn’t get your marching orders. Clattenburg’s blind.” 

“He’s just doing what he’s expected to do. Being lenient for the derby.” 

“You just don’t want to admit you were in the wrong taking out Hazard like that.” 

“Even if I was in the wrong, which I wasn’t, you’re right. I wouldn’t admit it.” 

They sit side-by-side on Dele’s sofa, Eric leaning heavily on Dele. Dele let him wheedle his way into an invitation over after the match against Chelsea, and he’d plopped down in his living room unshowered and spent to the point of lethargy, aggravated and perturbed to the point of full-body exhaustion. Dele listens to Eric talk when he feels like talking, changes the channel when a replay of the match comes on, and even lets Eric nuzzle into his shoulder after he assures Dele he’s too tired to drive home. Dele rubs his back and shoulders and draws a satisfied hum out of Eric, and he turns his head to smile so Eric doesn't see. 

“Neither of us had great ends to the season, Dier.” 

“It’s not over for me.” 

Eric snorts and Dele drives his fingers roughly into Eric’s spine, eliciting a yelp. 

“We’ll go second.” 

“Finishing above Arsenal. Champions League. Can’t believe it.” 

“We deserve it.” 

Dele leans over and kisses Eric’s cold, sweaty hair, wrapping his arm around him and Eric’s hot breath hits his neck and gradually slows until Dele’s sure he’s asleep. He flips the match back on and hardly makes it through five minutes before falling asleep himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes just in case:
> 
> \- Dele Alli was suspended by the FA for the remainder of the season after punching Claudio Yacob in the stomach during their 1-1 match against West Brom last Monday. To be fair, it was retaliation, as Yacob gave Alli a decent nudge first, but. It's actually kind of impressive that he got away with that - none of the referee staff must have seen because no action was taken against Alli during the match. 
> 
> \- Leicester won the league yesterday when Spurs drew Chelsea at Stamford Bridge 2-2. Spurs had to win the match to stay in the title race. In fact, they were winning 2-0 until the second half, in which Gary Cahill and Eden Hazard both scored to equalize. The entire match then dissolved into misbehavior and Spurs were awarded nine (!) total yellow cards, which is the most in a single match in Premier League history. Tensions were running higher than usual in this derby. Eric Dier was one of the Spurs men to earn a yellow card, but he was flying into risky and reckless challenges left and right and was extremely lucky not to have been sent off.


End file.
